Ask E. Jean: December 2007

An Epic Derriere

Dolls, this issue of ELLE is filled with deliquescently sinful desires, so here's a catalog of cravings selected from this month's Ask Eeee correspondents. Presenting: The Lust List, 2007

An Epic DerriereDear E. Jean: I've always been thin, but I recently lost eight pounds. I was running around a lot because of my job, and now I'm toned and healthier than I ever was. Unfortunately, my behind—an asset I've always adored about myself—has shrunk. And my boyfriend is bothered as hell about it.

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He misses my butt and keeps nagging me to gain weight. At first I thought he was joking, but now I'm irked. I loved my body before, and I love my current body just as much. Why can't he find me sexy the way I am now?—Baby's Gotta Get Back

Back, my lettuce leaf : Next time the boy begs for the rebirth of your buttocks, drop to one knee, lift his trouser leg, and cry: "Your ankles! What happened to your ankles? How bony! You know how I adore a fat, bulging, porcine ankle! Please, darling! An addition of a mere 20 or 30 pounds will plump up those knobs in no time. Here, let me call the caterer and order you the Gala Six-foot Gorgonzola Cheese Wheel."

You gotta love a man who wants more of you: But in the end, it's your bottom, my dove. You may tighten, tone, trim, tweak, or tattoo the bugger with the words: "Methought I was enamored of an ass." And if you desire to walk around with a smaller, haughtier, firmer little fanny—well, then the lad must learn to love it... and shut the hell up.

The Dude on a White HorseDear E. Jean: I've been dating this fabulous man for three months. He's sweet, funny, respectful, charming, smart, and ambitious. I was skeptical at first because he is ultrainvolved with his career, is 12 years older than I am, and makes waaaaay more money than I do. I have a respectable career, and I offer to pay when I can. Money has never been an issue—until this past weekend.

He decided to take a three-day vacation together, and he made the reservations, organizing everything down to the last detail. He even insisted on paying for it all, saying we'd "settle it later." I expected to pay half of the hotel and some of the other expenses. But today he e-mailed me an itemized Excel spreadsheet of every penny we spent! He asked that I pay for whatever I was "comfortable with."

I felt like he gave me a bill! I told him I was sending him a check for half of the expenses, and he didn't say anything! Where, all of a sudden, is this coming from? I'm wondering if he's even interested in a real relationship with me.—Baffled in Brooklyn

Baffled, my begonia : Oh, he's interested— just not abso-freaking-lutely interested. Ninety-nine point nine men out of 100 would have felt the most brutal of male tremors—humiliation—sending a beautiful, clever, sexy young Brooklyn woman (with whom they've just enjoyed a three-day pash-romp) a flippin' spreadsheet.

However, the romance is new, and he is old. Give it time. And just to make certain that Mr. Wad McDillweed doesn't have a hedge fund for a heart, the next time he suggests a holiday, smile and say: "My luv, here's my wallet. [Hand it over] You're sweet and charming, and I beg you to take whatever cash you need now. Because in the future, since I find imminent death sexier than a spreadsheet, I intend to refuse all e-mails containing ledgers, invoices, grids, and line-itemized budgets." I think he'll add things up.

Fame and FoodDear E. Jean: I'm an award-winning artist. My work has been published; I've been selected for numerous juried shows; and I've always been positively received. Why isn't my work selling like hotcakes? I give out my business cards; I tell people to check my website; I have six shows coming up, for Pete's sake! Yet no one is knocking down my door. What gives?—Will Paint for Food

1. Know who buys art. Damien Hirst will pluck Frida Kahlo's eyebrows before "numerous juried shows" get you half a tube of cadmium red. Prizes help, but your career depends on crashing the tightly controlled universe of status, bull hockey, money, ego, sex, and fame; on hanging out in the right galleries; and on meeting investors, dealers, patrons, and collectors.

2. Suck up to the collectors. You're a pretty, young Louisiana woman full of moxie (I can tell: I checked your website, amyguidry.com). Attend charity events, volunteer at your museum, and—this requires real Southern grit—offer to do portraits of the two or three leading socialites in your city for free. You'll soon be hanging above the fireplaces of people who actually invest in art.

3. Hire a publicist. She will get you mentions in magazine and newspaper columns, which, in turn, will get you invited to more openings and events; which, of course, will create a frenzied desire among collectors to haunt your studio and be photographed purchasing your pictures. Good luck.

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The Giant ODear E. Jean: I've been with my fiancé for two years and love him to death. But (there's always a "but," isn't there?) he's unbelievably selfish in bed. He always wants me to "do everything" to him, and he never returns the favor. The sex is over before it starts. I've only had one "O"—and that was when he was drunk—because he's Mr. One-Minute Man. When I suggested we try some techniques to help lengthen his staying power, he got mad and told me to "go get something at the adult store when [he's] not around."

He's my first, so I have no idea what I'm doing. He doesn't try before, during, or after to give me any pleasure. The only thing he ever did was put some kind of "orgasm cream" on me—it burned like hell! He also splurges on himself when we're trying to save for a down payment for a house, sneaks around to see his ex, and is friendlier to strangers than to me.—Future Mrs. Minute Man

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Mrs. Minute, my muskmelon : Auntie Eeee is raising an indignant eyebrow here, but first things first: Of all the sex snafus and shag-mires, premature ejaculation is the simplest to fix. It merely requires your fiancé to learn control. About a thousand books and websites exist on the subject. The best : WebMD's article titled "Trigger Happy?" (webmd.com/sex/premature-ejaculation).

But what can't be fixed, my dear, is your fiancé's breathtaking selfishness and slink-weasel disrespect. He's a creep of the first order. You deserve better.

The Splendor of YouthDear E. Jean: I'm happy—got the dream job, the great friends, the financial success, and the spiritual enlightenment. The issue is that I just turned...30! Am I now a social outcast? The thing that pushed me over the edge was a dating site called 30+Singles, which is for "mature" singles. Eek! Am I over? Am I an old loser now?—30 Is NOT the New 20

Miss Eek, my thistle : Thirty is not for wimps, young lady! Pull yourself together. Stop bitching. You want to see old? Volunteer at a nursing home, and perk up the ancient darlings' spirits—some poor souls haven't had a visitor in 30 years. This will get your head straight.

And then if you're a brave girl for the next half century, I'll send you a one-month subscription to GeezerFever.com at the end of it.

A Faithful ChapDear E. Jean: My husband is having an affair, and I don't know what to do. I'm a terrible person: I accessed his credit card statements and snooped in his cell phone. And here's the irony: He confronted me! He said "someone" was looking at his bank statements. Flustered and frightened, I lied.

He has spent extensive amounts of time with this other woman, and our relationship is becoming weaker and weaker. I'm so scared of losing him! Isn't that awful? I feel he has everything (he's the breadwinner) and I have nothing. If he's so unhappy with me, why doesn't he just leave? I'm afraid of what will happen if I have it out with him: He'll disappear for good. And without him, where will I be left?—Sad Snoop

Miss Sad, my snowdrop : You stand a chance of being left with half of everything if you hire a clever attorney. If you decide not to split (and you adore the lout, obviously), consult an attorney anyway.
Not very Zen, I know, but a lawyer will help you figure out what you want, concentrate your thoughts, and give you confidence, knowing you have someone in your corner.

Then, over cocktails, or sometime when you're not rushed, tell your husband you saw his bank statements and that you know he's having an affair. Don't be treacly. Don't cry. Don't squish Kleenex into your face, and be prepared for him to attack you for snooping. Hold your ground.

Then wait for him to calm down (and shed about six ounces of persp). If you stay strong, drop the helpless-wife act, and tell him exactly what you want...I think you'll have begun the first step of a journey that could lead to a v.v.v. unboring marriage. Or divorce.